Burnt Hands and Scorched Hearts
by bucktooth22
Summary: Sherlock was injured and John is looking after him but what happens when the doctor becomes more than a friend? Johnlock


Disclaimer: Alas, I own nothing.

Sherlock sighed. He sat in the hospital bed waiting for John to get there. He had been doing an experiment in the kitchen and it had gone horribly wrong. The beaker exploded causing burns to cover Sherlock's hands and glass to embed itself in his palms and fingers. He wanted to leave but the stupid doctor wouldn't allow it until someone signed for him. He would have forged John's signature but with his hands all bandaged up he was unable to. Suddenly the door burst open and John's worried face was there.

"Sherlock." He gasped as he moved over to Sherlock's bedside.

"Yes John. It took you long enough to get here." Sherlock responded a bit more harshly than he intended.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock I was out at the store. I got back home and there was blood everywhere!" John gushed. "How are you? Does it hurt? Do you want something for the pain?"

"Just sign me out and take me home." Sherlock responded tiredly. John nodded and left the room. Sherlock sighed and looked at his bandaged hands. "This simply will not do." He said as he began planning ways to unbandage his hands. He had experiments to do, work to finish, and so much more to do. He needed his hands for his work, this simply would not do. John came back into the room and held the door open for Sherlock. The consulting detective got up carefully and left the room. He walked out of the hospital followed by his little blogger. They got outside and managed to hail a cab.

"221B Baker Street please." John said as he scrambled into the cab next to Sherlock. The rest of the ride was silent as they rode to their flat. They got out and went inside to find Mrs. Hudson waiting by the door.

"Oh Sherlock dear! How are you feeling? Do you need anything? How are the hands?" She asked as he brushed past her and up to the door to their flat. John trailed him waiting for Sherlock to need something. He got to the door and stopped his progression as he stood there glaring at the door as if it had personally offended him.

"Do you want me to get that for you?" John asked kindly from behind him. Sherlock growled and made his first attempt to open the door. The brass handle slipped under the cloth covered hands, unyielding. "Sherlock." John said his name exasperatedly.

"I don't need help." Sherlock bit back. He needed to prove that he could do this. He needed to show that he could manage within the confines of the restrictive bandages. He needed to open the door both to prove that he could still use his hands and to prove how strong he was. He had to work through the pain. He felt the stitches pull and he felt the cloth warm with fresh blood. "Oh god Sherlock." John said as Sherlock finally gave in and let his hands fall. Blood coated the door and his hands but he pushed John aside and began trying again. He _had_ to open the door. He scrambled to open it and was beginning to get frustrated. John sighed and opened the door causing Sherlock to shoot him a venom filled glare. They entered the flat and Sherlock was about to storm up to his room until his eyes fell on the kitchen. There were scorch marks covering it and blood and glass everywhere. He turned and looked at John over his shoulder. John looked resigned and wounded. He went over and began to look for something.

"What are you staring at?" John asked not looking up from his search.

"What are you looking for?" Sherlock asked not answering. He could have said you, John. He could have said I am staring at the most handsome man I have ever seen. He could have said I am staring at the love of my life but instead he asked a question of his own.

"I'm looking for something to start cleaning this mess up with." John responded finally looking up at Sherlock. He stared into Sherlock's eyes for a moment as if searching for something before getting up. "Come up with me to my room." John said as he left the mess and moved to the stairs. Sherlock tried to keep his pulse down but he could feel the trepidation that rose in him at the thought of being with John in his bedroom.

"Why?" Sherlock asked trying to keep the hope out of his voice. He followed the little doctor up the stairs.

"So I can rebandage your hands and maybe redo your stitches." John responded as they got to the door. He opened it and Sherlock tried to focus on John but he simply had to take it in. This was John's room and Sherlock needed to take in every bit, every essence of John stored in there. There was a desk with a lamp, a small bookshelf with medical books, the bed was made neatly, and Sherlock could see medical supplies poking out from under the bed. John sat down on the bed and began pulling out a red box from under the bed. "Sit." He said not looking up from what he was doing. Sherlock sat as all the things he could say ran through his head. _I love you John. I'm sorry John. Don't tell me what to do. You're too good to me. You're amazing._ Instead of saying something he sat down next to John and offered his hand to John. The medical man began expertly unbandaging the wounded appendage as Sherlock tried not to show how much pain he was in. John didn't even look up from his work on the hand. He took off the blood soaked bandage and began taking inventory. There were cuts and rips and torn stitches. It was a bloody mess but John didn't seem bothered by it. John was in his doctor mode, He was in the zone, in his element and nothing was going to distract him, least of all Sherlock. The consulting detective repressed a sigh; he wished he could be John's distraction. He wished John would notice him, his pain, his love. Sherlock tried to keep the shutter repressed as John's deft hands began to work. By the time his hands were done being dealt to Sherlock was a mess. He needed to be alone, he needed to work. He got up and walked out, when he got to his bedroom he nearly screamed at the door. He promised himself to never leave a door shut again. He knew it was rude to leave a door open but he just couldn't stand the helplessness he felt at its immovable sight. He nearly cried at the handle of the door, nearly screamed at the hard wood, nearly burst into a temper tantrum at its impermeable sight. He heard John behind him. He watched unmoving as the small army man opened the door. He remained silent as John walked away without a word or a glance. Sherlock wanted to scream, throw his hands in the air, stomp his feet and demand that John take care of him. He wanted John to tend to him, mind his needs and wants but how could he ask that of someone who had done that without a second though since the beginning. John would kill for him, would feed him, clean up after him, and to do almost anything he asked without a second thought. Sherlock would ask for things and expect things and John would rise up and fill in the gaps that Sherlock left for him. John was there for him when he couldn't ask for something he wanted. John was there for him when he felt alone or scared. John was patient and kind and sweet and generous and gentle and smart. John could keep up and could help unlike the rest of the world. The world around him felt so dull, stupid, annoying but John was opposite. He was fun and smart and adventurous and perfect. Sherlock went into his room and sat on his bed. He lay on his back and just let his thoughts consume him.

He had done the calculations for the experiment. It had two possible outcomes and explosion was not one of them. John knew to leave the experiments Sherlock left on the table alone so that was ruled out. His experiment must have been sabotaged but by whom? He went round and round grasping at smoke trying to deduce who had botched his experiment.

"Sherlock. Dinner." Called John's voice. Sherlock turned to the clock beside his bed. _**6:45**_****Sherlock sighed and got up. He went down the stairs and nearly fell over at what he saw. The front door was left open and the handle was clean. The kitchen was completely clean, no experiments, no glass, no blood, and everything was neatly organized. The room was filled with the delicious scent of lasagna, Sherlock's favorite. There was a plate of it on the table next to the couch, the food was cut up and there was a fork sitting patiently next to the plate. Sherlock looked around to find the rest of the lasagna sitting on the counter in the kitchen. The only piece of lasagna gone was the stuff on Sherlock's plate. He wondered where John was. John usually asked to eat together, wanting to have at least some semblance of family dinners. Sherlock went up to John's room and found the door open. He looked inside to find John sitting at his desk cleaning his disassembled gun.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"What Sherlock? Does it taste bad?" John asked not looking up from what he was doing.

"Aren't you going to eat with me?" Sherlock asked in a small voice.

"Why? I cleaned up everything. I left the doors open for you. What do you need?" John asked slamming down the piece he had been working on and looking up at Sherlock with an unreadable expression.

"You usually eat with me." Sherlock said quietly. John sighed and picked up another piece and began working on it.

"I'm not hungry." John said. Sherlock resisted the urge to drag the little doctor down the stairs to eat with him. He resisted the urge to ask him to eat with him. He instead walked over, pushed all the pieces of the gun off the table and onto the floor. He sat down on the table in front of John and looked down at the bewildered blond. "Wha-What are you doing Sherlock?" John stuttered nervously. Sherlock leaned in and put his lips centimeters from John's ear. He saw John shiver under his cool breath and he let a whisper of a smile cross his lips.

"Come eat dinner." Sherlock whispered gently against John's ear. John made a choking sound as he shivered again. They got up and went down to the living room. Dinner passed uneventfully with very little amount of chatter. Sherlock thought to himself that he was going to get an earful when John returned to his disassembled gun all over the floor. He was going to have guilt plague him for asking something of John. He always got mad at himself when he asked something of John. Despite everything the little blond doctor did for him, gave him, offered, Sherlock _still_asked for more. They finished eating and John cleaned up the plates and silverware. He came back and sat in his chair with the British throw pillow. Sherlock sat on the couch watching John carefully.

"So what was that about?" John asked. Sherlock looked at the little army doctor bemused.

"What?" He asked.

"Your way of asking me to dinner." John said carefully. Sherlock smiled slightly and John smiled back warily. The detective slowly got up and moved over to the blogger, _his blogger._ He slowly slid down onto John's lap. John just sat there not moving or talking. He just watched Sherlock with his careful vigilant expression. Sherlock straddled John and leaned in to kiss John lightly on the nose. He moved lower and put his lips lightly on John's. John groaned and as his lips parted Sherlock began devouring his mouth. His tongue pushed in and began twirling with Johns. It traced the outline of teeth and laid claim to John's stunned mouth. He pulled back and John moaned but was unable to make coherent words let alone string together a sentence. Sherlock pulled up John's shirt and began running his hands along the tan muscled stomach and growled. He wanted to feel John's skin under his hands. John moaned again, this time louder. Sherlock forgot about his anger and instead began running his teeth down his stomach. He let his tongue trace circles on the quivering flesh of John's stomach. This was the start to an interesting recovery.


End file.
